


I'll Conjure Too

by DameOfNoDelicacy



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5492771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DameOfNoDelicacy/pseuds/DameOfNoDelicacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It seemed that the boy who'd helped Romeo out of the tree knew that everyone around him would always absorb his words and heed his gestures willingly, but it seemed also that he got no joy from that knowledge. </p><p>Almost immediately, Benvolio was inclined to like him, and almost immediately, something about him made Benvolio sad."</p><p>A story about Romeo, Benvolio, and Mercutio, before and in between "Romeo and Juliet."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Palace of Verona Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Just so's ya know - this is a super incomplete fic, and the tagged relationships will show up eventually. None of them quite happen in this first installment, though. But I'll keep writing, and you all keep reading, and I promise, they'll be there! For now, enjoy the first bit :)

You could only climb so many trees before it began to get boring.

This, decided Romeo Montague, was perhaps the most universally accurate thought he’d ever had in his nine years of life. He frowned up at his next conquest, a knotty, sprawling thing with thick branches and lots of sharp, stabby-looking needles. “Hey, Ben?” he said.

“Hmm?”

“You know how we said we were going to climb every tree in the city before summer was over?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Like, every tree? Every single, last one?”

“Mm- _hmm_.”

“Well…” Romeo chewed his lip, hoping his next sentence would smack more of boredom than betrayal. “Well, I was thinking. Maybe we don’t need to climb _every_ tree. There’s _loads_ of trees in Verona. Even hundreds, probably.”

“Hmm.” Benvolio crossed his skinny arms tilted his head inquisitively to the side. A strand of neatly combed blond hair fell in front of his eyes, and he stuck out his lower lip and blew it away with a quick little puff of air. “Probably thousands of trees, more like.”

“So. Whaddya think, Ben? Every tree would – would just be too many trees. Don’t you think, Ben?” Romeo watched warily as his cousin’s brow furrowed. “…don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Benvolio, after about half a minute of deep contemplation. “Yes, I don’t think we can climb every tree in the city this summer, Romeo. Mathematically speaking. We simply don’t have enough time, and there are too many trees left.”

“Not even us,” said Romeo, who felt intensely relieved that Benvolio seemed amenable to the idea of calling off their tree-climbing expedition. “And we’re very good tree-climbers.”

“Indeed we are,” replied Benvolio matter-of-factly. Benvolio glanced up at the knotty old tree in front of them. “Too bad,” he mused. “It’s a shame to let our skills go to waste, really.”

“Maybe.” Romeo took one final look at the tree, then turned on his tiny heel and headed for home. Benvolio followed. “We can still climb trees every now and then for fun, though,” Romeo said. “Nobody said we couldn’t do that.”

“That’s not true, actually,” Benvolio pointed out. “I’m quite sure your mother… how did she put it? Oh, yes – she ‘expressly forbade you to climb trees all over the city like – ’”

“ ‘ – like a common hooligan,’ I remember,” said Romeo glumly. “But, hey – she doesn’t have to know about this, does she? How’s she even gonna find out? I know you’re not gonna tell her, Ben, ’cuz you’d be in just as much trouble as I would if she knew you’d been climbing trees, too.”

“I guess you’re lucky you haven’t torn your clothes or anything,” said Benvolio softly, his face going slightly red.

“Yes,” proclaimed Romeo. “Lucky, that’s me! Always have been, always will be. And that means I don’t have to listen to my mother about silly things if I don’t want to.”

“You practically _never_ listen to your mother, Romeo.”

“That’s because the rules she makes are _stupid_ , Benvolio.”

“Not all of them.”

“ _Most_ of them, though.”

“Which ones don’t you like? Aside from the tree-climbing one.”

“Well, for starters, I _hate_ it when she makes me dance with girls at parties. That’s probably the worst.”

Benvolio burst out laughing. “That practically never happens, Romeo!” he said between giggles. “Come on, just something normal. What’s something from every day that she…”

 

***

 

They talked and laughed and ran through the sun-dappled streets as only boys can do. Eventually, Romeo enticed Benvolio into playing a game of chase. Romeo had no idea where he was going, and Romeo didn’t care. He tore through Verona, chest heaving and sweat dripping into his eyes, until he almost literally hit a high stone wall entirely covered in snaking ivy. He stopped. He looked up, straight up. “ _Whoa_ …”

“Gotcha!” exclaimed Benvolio, smacking Romeo on the shoulder before doubling over to catch his breath. “Wow,” he said. “Good game, Romeo.”

“Ben.”

“Huh?”

“Look.”

Benvolio did. Above him spread the branches of what was, without a doubt, the tallest tree he’d ever seen. The tree clearly stood on the other side of the wall. Benvolio’s eyes grew wide. All he could manage to say was a long, drawn-out “Ohhhh.”

Romeo’s eyes flicked briefly to his cousin. “Ben,” he repeated.

“Mm-hmm?”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Benvolio grinned. “Mm- _hmm_.”

“Anyone coming?” said Romeo, beginning to look for hand- and footholds in the ivy.

“Only…” Benvolio scanned the street. “Oh – wait, yes, someone’s coming. It’s – oh, _wow_ , Romeo, it’s a pair of palace guards!”

“Palace guards?”

“Act _natural!”_ Benvolio hissed, and he and Romeo leaned against the wall and gazed as nonchalantly as they could up at the tree branches overhead, humming to themselves and doing their best to look innocent.

After what felt like ages, the guards passed. “Say,” said Romeo, his voice low and careful, “why d’ya think there were palace guards coming this way? Don’t they usually stay – ”

“ – near the palace,” finished Benvolio. “Yes. They do.”

Romeo looked up at the tree. Then he looked at the wall. Then he looked at the tree again. Then he looked at Benvolio. “Is this…” he started. “Is… is _this_ …”

“I think this is the Palace of Verona,” whispered Benvolio. “Romeo. Romeo, I think the _Palace of Verona_ is on the other side of this wall!”

“Ben.”

“…mm-hmm?”

“Ben. We have _got_ to climb that tree!”

Benvolio shook his head fervently. “No,” he said, “no, no, no. Not that tree. Not a Palace of Verona tree, no _way_ , Romeo. That’s a bad idea. That – that is – that’s a _horrible_ idea! The _prince_ lives here – you do know that, don’t you? We’d be _trespassing!_ And we’d have to climb this _wall_ , and – and – hey, Romeo! _Romeo!_ ” But Romeo had already scrabbled halfway up the ivy. “Oh, _you_ ,” pouted Benvolio. And then he scrabbled up right after his cousin.

When Benvolio reached the top, Romeo was standing on the wall, eyeing a tree branch with the utmost scrutiny. “I think,” Romeo began, “I _think_ I can make it if I jump from here.”

Benvolio gasped audibly. “You’re going to _jump?_ ” he shrilled.

“Yes, I think I will,” replied Romeo. “It doesn’t look that far.”

“Um,” said Benvolio. “I dunno, Romeo. It looks kinda far to me.”

“Hmm,” said Romeo.

Benvolio tried one more time. “Maybe you should – ”

Romeo jumped.

 

***

 

A good remedy for boredom when it came to tree-climbing, decided Romeo Montague, was leaping through the air to your near-death and finding yourself in a state of extreme discomfort and terror when you managed, only barely, to cling to the gnarled branch of a very, very tall tree with your slippery, nine-year-old hands.

Romeo kicked his legs back and forth, back and forth, struggling desperately to swing himself up onto the tree branch, but every time he swung, his hands slipped a little more. He wanted to cry out to Benvolio, but he knew he couldn’t. This was a _Palace of Verona tree_ , and someone important and scary might hear him.

He bit his lip. He felt tears well up in his eyes. _Don’t look down_ , he told himself, but even as he thought the words, he caught a glimpse of the ground, and his head swam. _I’m only nine_ , he thought. _I’m only nine, and I’m gonna fall out of a tree and get all squished and die._  The tears began to run down his face. He sniffed. He gasped. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Hey.”

Romeo opened his eyes. “…Benvolio?” he tried.

A pair of bright blue eyes and a shock of ginger hair popped, upside-down and inexplicably, into Romeo’s field of vision. “What, exactly,” said the boy they were attached to, “were you thinking?”

“I – ” said Romeo, shock and awe stilting his words, “I – I wanted to climb the tree.”

“You did?” The boy swung down to a branch just above Romeo. “Looks to me like you were going about it backwards. Usually, you start from the bottom, you know.”

“I _know_ ,” sobbed Romeo. “It’s just – my cousin and me, we were on the other side of the wall, and – ”

“Hey,” the boy said again, staring Romeo dead in the face with those unwavering eyes. “It’s all right. I didn’t mean anything by it, really, I didn’t. Here, lemme grab your hand – ”

The boy managed to haul Romeo up onto the branch, and Romeo, shaking, hugged it for dear life. “Thank you,” he finally said, after what must have been at least ten minutes of pulling himself together.

The boy, perched comfortably on his own branch, looked up from the book he was reading -  _Did he have that book with him the whole time?_ wondered Romeo – and offered the smallest of smiles. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “You… you ready to make your way down yet?”

“I think so,” said Romeo, straightening up slightly.

“Never worry. We’ll take it slow.”

 

***

 

Benvolio paced nervously along the wall of the Palace of Verona. He’d seen Romeo jump, had seen Romeo barely catch himself on the branch, had seen him hang there for an agonizing several minutes. Benvolio had never felt so helpless in his life. He’d tried to stop Romeo from jumping, he _had_. He’d done his best, but it hadn’t been enough.

But then, much to Benvolio’s relief, he’d seen Romeo somehow manage to kick up into the tree. His cousin had disappeared behind the leaves and branches then, so Benvolio could only assume that he’d make his way down the tree and out of the Palace grounds somehow… eventually… Benvolio looked up to the sky. It was getting dark. He swallowed. He hoped desperately that Romeo was all right.

Benvolio heard the tramping of boots, and he turned. _The guards were back_. He began to press himself against the wall, but then he stopped. He squinted. _Was that_ … a little squeak of fear escaped his throat. That was Romeo, walking towards him, head bowed, accompanied by two palace guards.

All he could do was stand there and hope for the best, Benvolio supposed. Romeo was alive and walking, Benvolio told himself – they had that much going for them, at least. It could have been worse. A lot worse.

Suddenly, and without explanation, Benvolio heard Romeo laugh. Benvolio looked up sharply. He squinted harder, and he saw for the first time that a fourth person was walking towards him with Romeo and the guards. It was a boy, slightly taller than Romeo, dressed in rumpled finery and ambling quite comfortably for someone who was clearly being escorted by two palace guards. The boy himself was not smiling, and there was something strange and more than a bit fascinating about him, Benvolio had to admit. Perhaps it was with the way he glanced sidelong at everybody as he shuffled forward, hands in his pockets. It seemed that he knew that everyone around him would always absorb his words and heed his gestures willingly, but it seemed also that he got no joy from that knowledge. Almost immediately, Benvolio was inclined to like him, and almost immediately, something about him made Benvolio sad.

Romeo was still smiling when he, the guards, and the boy stopped in front of Benvolio. “Ben!” exclaimed Romeo, pulling his cousin into a hug, “you waited for me! I was worried you’d gone home to tell – well. Well, you know. Thank you, Ben. Thank you.”

“No – no trouble,” said Benvolio, proud of himself for sounding as calm as he did. “Um. Romeo, who’s – ”

“Ah – yes! Ben, this is my – ” he looked back at the strange boy, who emphatically indicated the guards with a raised brow and a subtle twitch of the eyes,  “longtime friend. And his name. Is.” Romeo stopped. “Um. His name is – ”

“Mercutio Escalus, at your service,” said the boy, the formality of the introduction contrasting oddly with his high-pitched voice. “Glad to finally meet a friend of Romeo’s.”

 _Escalus,_ thought Benvolio, scarcely believing it. _He’s gotta be directly related to the prince!_ “Benvolio Montague. Glad to meet you, too – um. Mer – Mercutio, was it?”

“Yep,” said the boy – Mercutio. “That’s me.”

“Pardon, young master,” interrupted one of the guards, “but you really must return within the Palace Walls. I’m happy to have escorted your friend outside, but your uncle has expressed concern that the recent brawls and duels and such have rendered the city – ”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” sulked Mercutio, “all right. Back in I go. But, say – it really was good to meet you, Romeo. Benvolio.” He paused. “Perhaps – perhaps we could see each other again? Soon?”

Benvolio stood shell-shocked. A palace guard had called a boy with the surname Escalus “young master,” and Benvolio had been there to hear it.

Romeo, for his part, said “Yes! Soon.”

A trace of a smile, and Mercutio said, “Excellent.” And then the boy and guards turned and marched back to the door in the wall, back inside the Palace of Verona.

“What,” said Benvolio, sinking to the ground, “was that? _Who_ was that? What happened?”

“He saved me from falling out of that tree,” said Romeo.

“Okay. Okay, fine. Romeo.”

“Hmm?”

“Romeo, he’s called _Escalus._ ”

“Oh, yes. He’s the prince’s nephew, he said.”

“Prince’s nephew?”

“Yep. Oh, get over it, Ben,” said Romeo, “he’s actually quite nice. And quite normal. Well,” he amended, “maybe not… _normal_ … exactly, he… he seemed a little weird, I have to say. But he was nice. Actually quite nice.”

“You don’t say…”

“And he’s very funny, he’s very, _very_ funny, though I don’t think he knows that. Yet. If that makes sense. I imagine he’ll figure it out one day. I do hope so.”

“And that ‘longtime friend’ stuff?”

“Oh! He told the guards we were friends so I wouldn’t get in trouble for being inside the Palace. Turns out the Palace has even more rules than my mother does.”

“Hmm,” said Benvolio. He looked up at Romeo, whose face was shadowed by the beginnings of the Verona dusk, but who was still, very clearly, smiling. “Hmm,” Benvolio said again. “And did you mean it? About seeing him again? You really think we might, huh?”

“Who knows?” said Romeo. “I suppose it’d be nice, but probably not.” And with that, he offered Benvolio a hand. “C’mon, Ben,” he said. “Let’s go home.”


	2. Mercutio and His Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Benvolio knew himself well enough to realize that he would never be as bold and heedless as his friend. Probably not, anyway. Mercutio would continue to be Mercutio, fast-talking, likeable Mercutio, and Benvolio would continue to smile at Mercutio’s jokes in the company of their friends and to hold Mercutio as he wept when it was just the two of them. 
> 
> As far as Benvolio knew, not even Romeo had ever seen Mercutio Escalus cry."

“I think,” said Mercutio, jaw clenched and eyes like stone, “that I hate him.”

Benvolio risked a quick glance at his friend, shocked at the venom he heard in Mercutio’s voice. “Are – are you sure?” he asked. Mercutio, once a thoughtful, fairly self-contained young boy, had begun to choose his words less carefully of late. It was exactly as Romeo had foretold two years ago. Mercutio had discovered his cleverness, his wit, his talent for flourish, and he’d started to wield it. With that discovery had come reckless words and, to some small degree, reckless actions. It was strange to Benvolio, but not strange enough to make him stop being Mercutio’s friend. Besides, he liked Mercutio. And he cared about Mercutio. And that, Benvolio reasoned, was as good a reason as any to make sure that his friend had chosen his strong words properly.

“Yes,” replied Mercutio, curling his small hands into fists in his lap. The thick storm clouds churned overhead. “I’m sure.”

Benvolio considered this. Mercutio had never been anything but honest with him, as far as he knew. “All right,” he said slowly, nervously. “But surely you understand? At least a little? Surely you don’t blame him too much?”

“How can I not, Ben? He chose her over me. He chose _her_ over _me.”_ He closed his eyes and tightened his fists until his hands shook. “He. Chose. _Her._ ”

 

_“Young Master Montague? Your presence has been requested downstairs.”_

_Benvolio looks up from the geometry he’s been studying, surprised by the interruption. “Me?” he asks, though he realizes a split second after he’s said it how perfectly silly the question is – he's the only person in the room, after all._

_“Yes, sir. A Young Master Escalus to see you, sir.”_

_“Oh?” says Benvolio, closing his book and hopping up from his chair. “Very well, then – thanks, Abram. I’ll greet him in the entrance hall in just a moment.”_

_“Very good, sir.”_

_Benvolio tidies his desk as quickly as he can, and then stuffs a few coins and a well-worn and much-used map of the city into his pockets. He has no idea what Mercutio has planned, but he figures it can't hurt to be prepared. Then, as he always does, he slides open the drawer containing the heavy, short-bladed knife, and contemplates slipping it into his boot. But, as he always does, Benvolio leaves the knife in its place and slides the drawer shut again. He and Romeo and Mercutio have never had any need of knives on their adventures so far and, with any luck, it will stay that way._

_When Benvolio arrives in the entrance hall he stops cold. There stands Mercutio – though, thinks Benvolio, “stands” is describing it generously – against the wall, back slumped, chin leaning against his chest, hatless, and with his ginger hair more askew than usual. “…’Cutio?” ventures Benvolio, a pang of concern shooting through him._

_“Ben. Thank God.” Mercutio speaks in a monotone. He raises his head slowly. His cheeks are tear-streaked, and he stares at Benvolio out of puffy, bloodshot eyes._

_Benvolio rushes towards him, taking his friend’s hands in his own. “’Cutio, what is it? Are you all right? Something’s happened – what’s happened?”_

_“It’s Valentine,” whispers Mercutio. “He’s gone.”_

“What’s more,” Mercutio hissed, “there’s nothing particularly special about her, the way I see it. She’s boring. She’s perfectly plain. Even her name is ugly – _Silvia_. Ugh.”

“Must come from the Latin for ‘forest,’” offered Benvolio.

“Yes. Obviously,” spat Mercutio. “Just like Valentine comes from the Latin for ‘too-caught-up-in-your-own-stupid- _fucking_ -love-life-to-give-a- _damn_ -about-your-little- _brother_.’”

“Valentine’s from the Latin for ‘strength,’ or something like that, I think, actually,” said Benvolio. “Um. _Valentia, valentiae,_ feminine, first declension.”

“Feminine. Figures.” Mercutio scowled. “I hate him, Ben. He used to be my best friend in the whole world, and now he’s gone.”

“He was bound to marry sometime, ’Cutio. You must know that.”

“He could have waited until I was ready.”

“You’re twelve now, ’Cutio. If you’re not ready now, when are you gonna be, huh?”

Mercutio cast a dark, dark look at Benvolio. Then he leapt to his feet, jumped down the church steps, and began to take large, fast strides out of the square, towards the Palace.  “You’ve never _had_ a brother, Ben,” he shot over his shoulder. “How could you possibly know what it’s like?”

Now it was Benvolio who felt like crying. Why did it always have to happen this way? Mercutio would make some grand, sweeping statement, and Benvolio would do his best to talk some sense into him, but Mercutio never understood sense. Not Benvolio’s kind of sense, at any rate. Mercutio lived according to his own rules, and Benvolio admired him for it, most of the time. In truth, he often wished that he had the courage to be as bold and heedless as Mercutio seemed to be. But Benvolio knew himself well enough to realize that it would never happen. Probably not, anyway. Mercutio would continue to be Mercutio, fast-talking, likeable Mercutio, and Benvolio would continue to smile at Mercutio’s jokes in the company of their friends and to hold Mercutio as he wept when it was just the two of them. As far as Benvolio knew, not even Romeo had ever seen Mercutio Escalus cry.

 

_They’d walked in silence, first around the grounds of the Montague estate, and then, when Mercutio claimed he was growing restless, all around the city. They are old enough now that they have permission to come and go from the estates as they please, a privilege of which Benvolio and Mercutio, and Romeo, too, take ample advantage. Now, Benvolio and Mercutio walk along the River Adige, alternately kicking little pebbles into its muddy depths and glancing upwards at shapes in the roiling clouds. Benvolio had said, “Looks like a storm’s coming,” and Mercutio had said, “Hmm.” Evidently, Mercutio did not want to talk yet – he will in time, Benvolio knows._

_Eventually, they reach a small square, bordered by an old, medieval church on one side and by shops and apartments on all of the others. Mercutio meanders towards the church steps and sits heavily upon them, claiming that “If some old priest wants us to move our asses, then I’ll have him defrocked and banished in the name of the Prince,” and Benvolio, too wary to do more than chuckle at the tasteless assertion, simply sits next to him._

_Mercutio begins matter-of-factly enough. He states the events in the order that they’d happened. Valentine, it seemed, had left Verona for Milan some time ago, claiming that he’d wanted to broaden his horizons a bit, as a gentleman should. He’d promised to come back to Verona – back, more importantly, to Mercutio._

_But Valentine had fallen in love._

_“Silvia,” Mercutio intones, rendering the word hollow like a death knell. “Daughter to the Duke of Milan.” Benvolio loses track of the story after that – there had been some business with a gang of outlaws, and Valentine’s friend Proteus (who Benvolio had met once or twice, and who Benvolio did not hold in particularly high regard) had been involved, and, somehow, the whole thing had ended in Valentine’s marriage to Silvia. Mercutio’s lip quivers then. “My brother left me for Milan. For a stupid girl. For – for Silvia. For – forever.”_

It didn’t take Benvolio long to catch up to Mercutio. “Hey,” he said. Mercutio did not turn. “ _Hey_ ,” he tried again. Mercutio kept walking. Benvolio planted his feet. He took a deep breath. “Mercutio Escalus,” he shouted, surprising himself with the bigness of his own voice.

This time, Mercutio did stop, but he still kept his back to his friend. Benvolio cleared his throat, and said, “Mercutio Escalus, please turn around and look at me, because I have something very, very, very important to say to you. All right?” Mercutio turned, and caught Benvolio with that dead, blue stare. Benvolio swallowed. “Um. Please,” he said.

Mercutio ran a hand through his hair. “I’m listening. Benvolio.”

“Good,” said Benvolio, feeling both more scared and more powerful than he had in a very long time – in forever, maybe. “Mercutio,” he said, “no – _’Cutio_ , you’ve had a rough go of it. I know you have. I know you and Valentine were close. Real close. And – and you’re lucky to have had that. With him. With Valentine. And I know it hurt when he decided to marry that stupid Silvia and live in Milan, and I know you feel like he left you and everything, and that’s _hard_ , it _is_ , but – but – ” Benvolio struggled for the words. He knew what he wanted to say, but would Mercutio understand?

“Yes?” Mercutio cut in. He tapped his foot on the cobblestones, fidgety and impatient.

“Well, it’s – ” Benvolio hesitated again. But then, all in one great burst – “Don’t you _dare_ say I don’t know what it’s like to have a brother, Mercutio. Don’t you – ” _Was this still him talking? Benvolio scarcely recognized his own voice_ – “fucking _dare_ say that.”

Mercutio’s mouth fell open a little. “I… ” he began. “Ben, I never – ”

“Because I think I do, you know,” Benvolio continued, his passion gathering speed now, “I _do_. I could talk to you for _hours_ , ’Cutio. And you tell me about every idea you ever have, every idea ever, I think – you even snuck into my house really late one night because you simply couldn’t wait to show me a song you wrote, remember?”

“I was worried I’d forget how the tune went if I slept,” Mercutio mumbled.

“And I – I tell you, actually _tell_ you, every single time, when you make a really dumb mistake when we’re practicing with swords. And – and – I – ” Benvolio was running out of words. “Look. What I’m trying to say is, I think – no, I’m absolutely sure – that you know me better than absolutely anyone else in the world. And – and I can’t claim that I know you as well as Valentine does – ” Mercutio’s mouth twitched, and he looked down – “but I think I must be pretty close.”

Moments passed. Mercutio said nothing. Benvolio took a step towards him, and placed his hands securely on his friend’s shoulders. “Mercutio,” he said. Mercutio’s eyes travelled slowly upwards. “What I’m trying to say is, you – you’re my brother.”

Still, Mercutio said nothing. He only pulled Benvolio into the tightest hug Benvolio had ever been subject to, and he didn’t let go for a very long time. Benvolio felt spots of wetness and heat where Mercutio’s head rested against Benvolio’s chest – tears again, but of course, Benvolio didn’t mind. Eventually, Mercutio released the embrace, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, Ben,” he whispered.

Benvolio’s face softened. “Don’t be,” he said, and he meant it.

“Thank you, Ben.”

Benvolio went to say “you’re welcome,” but Mercutio cut him off.

“No,” he said. “Thank you, _brother_.”

Benvolio smiled. “Shall we?” he asked, and Mercutio nodded, and together, as brothers, they marched out of the square.

Mercutio looked down at his shuffling feet as they walked. “You… you swore at me, Ben.”

“I – I didn’t mean to.” Benvolio turned bright red. “It just sort of – happened. I – ”

“I deserved it – no, I _did_ ,” said Mercutio, seeing his friend start to protest. “It’s just – it’s funny. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear before.”

“Well. Don’t get used to it.”

“Awww, that’s a shame,” drawled Mercutio, his face the very picture of exaggerated disappointment. “You sure?”

“Very sure.”

“Ah, well. Suit yourself. It was good fun to see Sweary Benvolio for a bit, though.”

“If you say so,” Benvolio replied begrudgingly. But he was still smiling.

They’d nearly arrived at the front gates the Palace of Verona. Benvolio glanced fondly up at an ivy-covered wall and a certain towering tree as they passed. Then he looked back to Mercutio. “You gonna be all right?” he asked.

A flash of that black anger crossed Mercutio’s face for the briefest of moments, but then it passed, replaced by a schooled mask of general cheerfulness. “Yes,” said Mercutio, but Benvolio thought something about it rang false. As if to reassure him, Mercutio said “Yes,” again, and then he said, “don’t you worry about it, Benvolio, not for a second.”

“Okay,” said Benvolio softly. “Brother.”

A genuine smile from Mercutio now. “Yes. Brother.” And he turned towards the gate. Then he paused. He turned back. “Only,” he said, resolution coloring his face and his voice, “don’t you ever leave me for a girl. You got that, Benvolio?”

“Of course,” replied Benvolio, immediately. The very idea repulsed him. Leave Mercutio? Never. “I promise. I won’t ever leave you for a girl. Brother.”

“Not you, not Romeo, not anyone,” said Mercutio, “and I won’t, either.” Mercutio stared out into the street. He looked lost, Benvolio thought, as if he knew that there was more that he could do and say, but wasn’t sure what to act on and what to let lie dormant.

“I know you won’t, ’Cutio,” said Benvolio, hoping to urge Mercutio to some decision – seeing his friend in this awkward limbo was tremendously difficult for him, for some reason. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” said Mercutio slowly. “Tomorrow.”

“All right.”

“All right.”

Benvolio waved good-bye and turned towards home. Before he’d taken more than five steps, he heard Mercutio’s voice over his shoulder again.

“Until tomorrow,” it said, “ _brother_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two sources of inspiration for this little guy here:
> 
> 1) Shakespeare's "Two Gentlemen of Verona," as readers will notice, is clearly referenced. I always thought it was sort of funny that Shakespeare uses the name "Valentine" twice to refer to gentlemen who live in Verona - once as the name of one of the title characters in "Two Gents," and once, briefly, on the invitation to the Capulet ball: "Mercutio and his brother Valentine." Somewhere along the way, I formed the theory that the Valentine from "Two Gents" and the Valentine from "R&J" could, reasonably, actually be the same person - which would make the Valentine from "Two Gents" Mercutio's brother. This chapter assumes that theory.
> 
> 2) There's this really charming exchange in the French version of the musical "Romeo et Juliette" between Benvolio and Mercutio. Benvolio first calls Mercutio "friend," but then Mercutio clasps Benvolio's hand and, as if to correct him, says "brother." Benvolio agrees, "brother." I thought it might be nice if the two of them were recalling a shared memory in that moment onstage. This could be that memory.
> 
> Oh - and as always, feedback welcome and appreciated! And, of course, enjoy!

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo, first installment of a fic with actual chapters! I'm feelin' pretty all right about it so far.
> 
> Feedback always appreciated. Thanks for reading!


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